Behind Blue Eyes
by EricaLumiere
Summary: /Gothika\ Post-movie. Miranda and Pete move on.
1. One

The image of the young boy made her heart skip, but she willed it to the back of her mind – God knows that with all she'd been through in the past year, she'd learned to repress a little. She quickened her pace. All she wanted was to crawl into bed, fall asleep, and find the safety of dreams.

Not even stepping through the door after she opened it, her hand found the light switches and clicked them on. Miranda had become a very cautious woman. Her eyes did a quick survey of the foyer and the doorways beyond. Nothing seemed out of place. Confident, she entered her home, closed and locked the door, disabled the alarm, then re-set it for the night.

She headed for the kitchen, dropping her coat, purse, keys, on the table; reached over and pressed the button on the answering machine, watching it as if expecting it to move.

"Hey, it's Pete. Just checking in to see how it went with Chloe today, making sure you're alright." His voice faltered, and Miranda smiled affectionately. "I was wondering if you'd like to come for dinner tomorrow? Maybe a drink? Just blow off some steam. Call me when you get in. Take care."

The machine beeped, signaling the end of the message. There were no others – no one else wanted to leave their voice on her machine.

She smiled again, picked up the phone, dialed a familiar number, and sat down in one of her kitchen chairs, crossing one leg over the other.

"H'lo?" A sleepy voice answered. A TV was on in the background.

"Oh, sorry, Pete. Did I wake you?"

"Don't worry about it, I was still awake." He stifled a yawn. "How'd it go?"

"Oh, Chloe's fine. I think she'll do great. Thanks for calling, by the way."

"Sure, sure. Not a problem," he paused, and the television went silent. "What do you think about tomorrow?"

"I'd never miss an opportunity for some of your fabulous cooking."

Pete let out deep chuckle that ended up sounding sexy. "You flatter me, doll."

Miranda laughed gently. She uncrossed her legs, kicked off her shoes. She couldn't help herself – a picture popped into her head, one that sent a tingle running through her. Not just of Pete cooking, but cooking while shirtless, frying something in a pan in the morning, while she wore one of his shirts and had her arms in an octopus hug around him. "I'll – I'll see you tomorrow night."

Suddenly, she didn't feel so tired. She was wound-up; she'd liked Pete for years. No, it was more than a fondness. She'd been ready to cheat on her husband with him. A part of her had wondered if it was just the lure of the forbidden that made her want him. But it was more – his boyish charm, his over-sweetness, how he went out of his way to look after her – and not to mention the hard muscles that she'd felt under his clothes more than once as she'd "bumped" into him in the hallway.

Sighing, she made sure her night-light was plugged in (just in case of monsters), clicked off her bedroom light, and tumbled out of her clothes and into her bed.

She lay awake staring around her room for what felt like hours.

* * *

Miranda woke late the next morning. Not that she needed to wake up early, it was just something she was used to. One glance out the window told her that it would rain all day. Dark, soggy clouds loomed as far as she could see. Already, it was pouring down, filling potholes, and making the gutters run like rivers.

This wouldn't deter her from her daily four-mile jog, however. She'd given up swimming – the local pool was too far, and she liked to spend as little time as possible inside the walls of work – and felt jogging was a happy substitute. It got her moving for the day. She brushed her teeth, pulled her hair into a ponytail, threw on some shorts and a sweatshirt, and headed into the kitchen. She chugged a glass of orange juice. She loved it. Orange was her favourite colour, so maybe she was a bit biased.

Her new home that she'd moved into a few months ago was happily decorated with a splash of orange. The drapes and bed set in the bedroom were a medium brown, with orange around the edges. It sounded more horrible than it looked, and she has long since given up trying to explain the pattern to people, and just let them view it for themselves. Mostly, she was informed that her taste was "interesting" or "eccentric". She didn't mind.

Her living room couch and loveseat were white, with a couple bold orange pillows sitting on them. The drapes were the same loud shade.

The closer that she and Pete became, the more he felt comfortable teasing her. He'd recently given her a speech about her decorating tastes. Mind you, it was a charming and witty speech, mostly concerning how Miranda needed to have orange-haired children to truly be happy.

She'd whacked him with a pillow then, and giggled, which had made him blush. Which, in turn, had made her throw her head back and laugh. His charms came out at all the best moments. He'd caught her arms with his hands, which she felt before she saw, and upon opening her eyes, realized just how close he'd come to sit beside her.

He'd been staring straight into her eyes, his face so full of caring that he almost looked worried. Her stomach had felt as if she were on a rollercoaster, waiting to go down. She'd met his gaze.

He had brushed her cheek with one hand, let it linger there; she had thought his hands would be cold because he was seemingly nervous, but he felt surprisingly warm. Miranda had wanted his hands all over her body. She still did. "'Randa… You know I'll always be here for you."

"I know you will, Pete." She'd thought she wouldn't be able to reply, but it happened without her thinking. She was surprised by his sudden insecurity.

Suddenly, he was smiling, but she thought she detected embarrassment as he pulled his hand off her face. "Sorry."

"Pete," she smiled; a sign to let him know everything was all right. He relaxed, and she caught his hand in her own. "I know… You'll be here to take care of me when I need it. And I'll be here for you, too. We'll always have each other."


	2. Two

She wasn't in the shower too long when she got home, mostly because she was already soaking wet and just wanted to be dry and warm.

Stepping back into her bedroom, towels snugly around her, she turned on the clock-radio and hummed along to an oldies song as she picked out an outfit for that evening. Dinner was never declared a formal event, but they chose to dress up a little; maybe it had something to do with feeling like they had to impress each other. Not that they needed to.

Selecting a short grey skirt and a sky-blue blouse (she knew Pete liked the colour on her, he'd mentioned it once before), she placed the clothes on the bed, and pulled on some casual wear for her day off.

* * *

Miranda pigged out on pancakes and eggs for breakfast, and spent a couple hours watching old cartoon shows, curled up on the living room couch with a blanket. She'd only recently learned to enjoy watching TV. Usually, she was the type to go, go, go, always get things done. Somehow – with a big thanks to Pete and his forbidding her to leave the house one weekend due to a nasty flu, which led to a hilarious attempt of him trying to pick up her groceries for her – she realized that some shows were interesting, and that she could tolerate some downtime now and again.

She passed the with phone calls to a couple girlfriends, some paperwork, browsing the Internet for things that she didn't need but wanted to buy – all those things you want to do during the week but never have the time for.

They never needed it said that dinner was at five o'clock. So at half past four, she changed and stared out the window, debating taking a cab to his apartment or walking. It wasn't very far, but she didn't want to ruin her outfit. She decided to call a taxi, then sat in the living room to wait.

* * *

For all his extravagant taste, Pete lived in a simple little apartment. Mind you, some of the decorations revealed his tastes, but there was nothing stand-out about the apartment. A bland part of town, a non-descript building, a simple little two-bedroom design. It was a quiet area, very relaxed, trees trying to grow around the buildings… Maybe that was why he loved it so much.

Miranda sat on the dark couch, blue or black or some shade of grey, she'd never really paid enough attention to know, holding the teacup gently in a soft hand. Her head lowered, eyes closed, willing tears not to come. She'd made the mistake of telling Pete about the little boy, and it stung her like a giant, metaphorical bee.

But he wouldn't just sit there and let her cry. He was off his couch, taking the cup from her, putting his arms around her and pulling her close before she knew what was happening. Her head was on his shoulder, and her arms found their way around him. In lighter moments, she would look back and remember how solid and warm his body felt.

"I don't want to go through this again, Pete," she begged quietly, as if he had the power to make it all stop.

"I'll help you through this, all right? I won't let anything happen to you," he spoke calmly, quietly, over the top of her head, with the years of practice of talking to patients. The part where his arm was so far around her shoulders that it almost touched her breast, well, he didn't practice that in therapy. His dress pants felt tighter.

Her hands fidgeted with the fabric of his shirt. She allowed herself one more moment to feel afraid and unsure, then pulled away from him, sniffled. "I know," she forced a smile. "I'll be fine, I just lost it for a moment there."

He brushed her cheek, as he had once so long ago. "Miranda, I can't say I know what you're going through, and I'm not going to pretend. But, honestly, I want to help in any way I can. So, please, if you need anything, let me know, okay?"

She nodded, touched his hand that was so torturously close to her lips. She had a brief thought of turning her head to kiss his fingers. "Okay."

* * *

Moments later, they were both relaxed again, reclining in different seats, sipping their tea and chatting about less horrifying things.

"Oh, oh, sorry!" he cut her off in mid-sentence about gossip of a mutual friend, and dashed out of the room, almost dropping his teacup back onto its coaster. Miranda smiled, picturing how embarrassed he would be if it turned out that dinner had been burned. She rose, following him into the kitchen, cup still in her hand, sitting delicately at the table. He had thrown on oven mitts and was pulling a dish out of the oven.

There was a hint of amusement in her voice; "Something wrong, Pete, dear?"

He glanced over his shoulder at her, setting the dish down on the stovetop. "Don't you say anything about my cooking. I've never gotten this timer fixed."

"You should, you know. Maybe get a professional in."

"I tried fixing it."

"Yes, exactly. Hence – the professional."

"I'd rather buy a new stove than pay some lazy old fart to spend fifteen minutes trying to find out where I keep the liquor while he prays I have to take a pee break." He took the lid off the dish, poked it with a fork. "Thank God."

The table was already set, and Pete started serving everything up – the salad, topped with nuts and a dressing he'd created; the casserole, steaming and covered in cheese; and garlic bread, because "you can never have too much garlic," he'd stated once.

Miranda was watching him, smiling to herself. The bare-chested image of him appeared again. She looked down. As lovely as this plate was – fine China – she couldn't help thinking that he would make an even better dish.

* * *

"Put it back two channels. Three!" They were sitting side-by-side on the couch, tummies full, two wine glasses on the table, already refilled once or twice, television on in front of them, with Pete in full control of the remote.

"Who owns this house? Who has the remote?" Pete asked, holding it away from her.

"But I'm the guest!" she made her lips into what she hoped was a playful and sexy pout.

"You know you're really cute when you do that. Kind of sexy," he told her, his eyes moving from the screen to her delicate face.

"Thanks," she fluttered her lashes.

"But you're still not getting the remote."

"Damn."

"And I'm not putting on any crappy, lovey-dovey chick flick. We don't watch that garbage here."

"I resent that. I don't know what it was, I wanted to find out."

"Sure… Two people holding each other like that, doves chirping in the background, you can't tell me it's not some love story." He clicked back a few channels, finding the show she wanted to see, and left the remote on the arm of the couch.

"It's an old Tom Cruise movie," Miranda stated.

"So it is gonna be a love story. All his old stuff is like that."

"Do you have a problem with that? I thought there was a lot of action in his old movies."

"Not enough to make it watch-able."

"You're just jealous of his fabulous hair."

Pete wasn't expecting this silly retort, and he laughed. "Get real, 'Randa."

"Get real? No one says that anymore!" Her eyes were shining, partly because of the wine, and partly because he had just unofficially given her a nickname.

He picked up his wine glass, held as if toasting, and took a sip. He winked devilishly. "I've got an idea."

"Hmm?" She was still smiling.

"Drinking game?"

"What?!" Miranda gaped at him, her smile still strong.

"Let's play a drinking game. C'mon, every time Tom Cruise looks flirty, or smiles, or laughs, we'll take a drink."

"We're not in high school, Pete!" But she grabbed her glass, made herself comfortable again beside him.

"We did stuff like this in university, too, don't be silly."

"Maybe you did." She tried to make a scoffing sound, as if what he'd said was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard.

"Oh, you weren't Miss Perfect Example! You told me stories about yourself before."

"About how I got A's all the time, and never missed a lecture," she jabbed excitedly at the screen as Tom Cruise smiled, and they each took a sip.

"You also told me about how you played beer pong all weekend and told your folks you weren't getting enough hours at work, so they would send you money – which you spent on beer."

"That was you!"

"And you!"

Miranda tried to keep a straight face over her glass, but Pete raised an eyebrow and her concentration broke. She burst into giggles. "Those were such amazing times, weren't they," she had a dreamy look on her face.

"Mmm," he murmured, agreeing, resting an arm on the back of the couch; Miranda inched closer. Her hair was touching his shirtsleeve. He could smell her perfume. Something… flowery? He'd never cared what women smelled like, didn't care if they wanted to smell like baby powder or cupcakes or borscht, he had only ever cared what food smelled like. And if he had been the one to make it, it would obviously smell delicious. But now, with her… Pete breathed in, trying to figure out her perfume. Something outdoorsy. "'Randa?"

"Yeah?" She felt she would blush if he called her that one more time. She turned her face, her mouth mere inches from his. His breath was delicious; his mouth would taste exactly like the wine they'd been drinking…

"What's that you're wearing? Uh, your perfume? I can't put my finger on it," he cleared his throat, realizing his question had come out a bit juvenile-sounding.

"Lemongrass," she smiled.

He returned the smile, reaching over the arm of his couch and setting his wineglass on the small side-table that he knew was there. His glass might leave a water ring and ruin the wood, but he had something else on his mind at this moment, something far more important than damaging one silly little table.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

Pete's hand took her glass out of her fingers, and without turning he placed it beside his own. "Love it." His lips went for hers.


	3. Three

She decided to sleep nude that night.

There was a certain comfortable pleasure to be had from the entire body feeling the silken touch of zillion-count-thread sheets. The way – when you moved a foot here and an arm there to unoccupied spaces – the coolness felt against the warm skin, much like flipping the pillow over to feel the fresh side on the cheek, the neck, the shoulder.

She hadn't showered; her perfume had fuelled the fire that was Pete Graham's kiss, and she hoped it would provide a little kindling for a dream, as well.

* * *

How long they had been on the couch, hands in each others hair, his fingers firmly on her cheeks, their lips and tongues in a world of their own. Miranda hadn't realized how much, until the surge that ran through her body the instant his open mouth touched hers, until his tongue flicked against her bottom lip, hadn't realized how badly she wanted him.

She had ended up on top of him, buttocks in his lap, gripping tightly to the collar of his shirt, fingers dancing along his shoulders and his chest. He groaned, and she captured his mouth even harder. She was warm, very, very warm.

Pete's lips left hers, gently, they found their way from her cheek to her neck. They brushed her ear. A shiver went down her spine, and she thought she might suffocate from the heat.

Somehow they toppled backwards and then he was on top of her, making out like kids in high school. It was perfect.

There was an unspoken agreement that they would stay on top of the clothes (not tonight, not yet, soon, but not yet), but she itched to break this. She tried to please herself by sliding her fingers under his collar, holding the back of his neck, hoping the top button on his shirt would miraculously unfasten itself so she could lick his collarbones.

Minutes passed. The credits on the movie began to roll. Their kissing began to slow; less like teenagers, more like slated lovers. At long last, he pulled his mouth away from hers for the last time, placed a soft, sweet kiss on her forehead. He still had one leg between hers, the other foot planted on the floor, so as not to crush her.

Miranda opened her eyes, slowly, her fingers playing with his hair. He was biting his lip at her. "Hey," she whispered.

"Hey," he whispered back. He kissed her forehead again. "You alright?"

"Yes." He had to move off her or she wouldn't be able to help herself…

As if he'd read her mind, he delicately pushed himself off her, sat up, offered her a hand. She accepted and he pulled her upright beside him. He put an arm around her again, kissed her cheek. "I can't stop kissing you," he spoke low into her ear.

* * *

They had managed to stop embracing each other long enough to say some quiet good-nights, nothing awkward, just a couple secret smiles and soft kisses more. It didn't feel like a situation that shouldn't have happened – it felt like something had happened that they had been waiting far too long for, and they were just so pleased that they were satisfied with this small bit.

Goodness knows, there would certainly be more to come – much more.

* * *

"_I'm sorry, Miranda._"

An image of Pete, one hand on the glass door of the police station, appeared in her dream that night. It was right after Sheriff Bob Ryan burned to death, and she was creeping around the room.

As soon as Pete opened the door – busting the lock, because he couldn't leave her in there any longer – she collapsed into his arms, and he half-carried her outside, sat her on the concrete, where she cried, their arms around each other.

It was then that she'd understood just how much Pete cared for her, and much he suffered when she was in the institution. He had been in shock when he had found out what she had – reportedly – done to her late husband, but made the decision to be her doctor while she was a patient. He couldn't have someone else mucking about and not caring for her properly. He'd admitted before that he wanted to pull a "fuck the authority" move, throw her in his car, drive away. Anywhere. It hurt him to see her on the other side of the pills, of the therapy, of the fences – he loved her.

After Sheriff Ryan died, all the facts were revealed, but the DA let the case drop. They cited that no one would believe it. Someone had mentioned reopening the case one day, but Miranda had argued against it – no point; no one would believe it, as they had admitted. Nor did she want to be forced to rethink every little detail. It would all be in vain, anyway, as all the bad guys were dead.

She was happy to be moving on and starting a new life.

She was very happy that Pete was going to properly in this one.

* * *

Pete called her the following day – a proper gentleman – to ensure that all was well. He was obviously pleased that she was happy.

"Well, look, I've got to get going; I just wanted to check in with you. I'll see you at work tomorrow, kay?"

"Of course. See you later, Pete."

"See you, 'Randa."

She was very happy indeed.

* * *

When she arrived at work the next morning, she nearly started glowing seeing Pete's car parked in the lot. She felt badly about it, but she didn't remember being this happy with Doug. A twinge of guilt hit her. Why hadn't she felt that way? She'd loved him so much. But, she recalled, hadn't had so much in common besides work. Maybe they had fallen in love and married for status. Doug had never been a romantic man, never affectionate, never a surprise up his sleeve.

Well, that's it, then, she thought, parking and retrieving her purse from the passenger seat, Pete is just a more charming character. He doesn't keep secrets – haha – and he's a lot more sensitive. Maybe he's more my type. No two people are the same, and you can't expect to like everyone the same way.

She flashed her perfect smile at the receptionist, who was already on the phone with a Complainer, as they were referred to. The girl returned the smile and hit a button somewhere on her desk to unlock the door for Miranda, who hurried through it and made the way to her office.

Her work day began.

* * *

Counselling sessions with patients, a quick coffee break, catching up on a small mountain of paperwork, and it was already lunchtime. The day seemed to be flying by. The sun was shining in brightly through her office window.

Pete was in the lunchroom when she got there, telling rude jokes to a couple of the nurses, one mid-twenties, one middle-aged. He caught Miranda's eye as she walked to the refrigerator, winked, and continued his joke. She smiled, rummaged through for some foodstuffs she kept in there.

Grabbing yogurt and a spoon, she sat down beside one of the nurses, a young girl with the very old-fashioned name of Esther. Miranda quite liked the girl, who was known for always have a smile and a sunny attitude ready.

The girls giggled as the joke ended. "How filthy!" they gasped.

"How are you?" Pete leaned over and planted a kiss on Miranda's cheek, completely unabashed.

Esther gasped; the older woman smirked, as if to say, "It's about time!" She had been around long enough to notice Pete's puppy love for Miranda. She slapped one hand on Esther's knee, then turned back to her lunch.

Miranda caught Esther's eye. She winked at the girl. There would be much gossiping later; the two weren't friends outside of work, but they did tend to turn into chortling little schoolgirls on weekdays.

"I'm good, thank you. Did you get your stove fixed yet?" She spooned some yogurt into her mouth.

Pete licked his lips. "Nah. I'm not much worried about it. Listen, what are you doing for dinner tonight?"

She cocked her head to one side, thinking. "Probably eating here. I'm way behind on a report. I'm making progress, but not enough yet."

"Mmm, well you let me know when you've got an evening free. I have a fantastic new recipe for you to try." He stood, and only then did Miranda notice he had no empty containers, no paper wrappers in front of him on the table – nothing to signify he'd eaten recently. "See you," he smiled around the room and left, closing the door softly behind him.

Miranda could hardly wait. A little shiver ran through her.

The sun shone in brightly through the lunchroom window.


	4. Four

As much as Miranda tried to complete enough work to satisfy herself, she felt it wasn't enough to excuse her for an evening with Pete. She wanted to, badly, but wondered if maybe she was procrastinating. Was she nervous? She vaguely remembered getting ready for her first date at the tender age of sixteen – her best friend came over, helped her style her hair, pick out the perfect outfit, and hid up the stairs listening in as her date showed up and met her parents. She remembered the experience as quite horrific.

Mostly though, she was horny. It had been a long time, and Pete was very attractive.

She had concerns about feeling insecure, thinking she'd forget to shave her legs, would make the mistake of eating onions the day before, that her outfit wouldn't match or that the buttons wouldn't undo smoothly, and that the night would turn into one of those awful B-list movies with poor acting in the love scenes.

"Oh, you silly little girl," she chided herself aloud. It was Thursday night, and she was cooped up in her office again. That small mountain of paperwork had a mountain of cousins hidden in a drawer that she'd neglected to put on top of her desk, and had therefore forgotten all about. All the lights were on to fight off any surprise-attacking sleepiness. She threw her pen down, and picked up the phone.

* * *

Their date was set for the next night. She decided, twiddling the ends of her hair as she drove home, that if it went well – well, then they needn't be up early. She would have set it for Saturday night but – if it went poorly, then they wouldn't have to see each other for two days.

She stayed up late, fantasizing. Not just the dirty stuff – mind you, that was certainly nice to think about, and picturing it all happening smoothly calmed her nerves a little – but the nice, sweet, romantic gestures, too. The long-term stuff. Envisioning Pete making her breakfast the morning after, spending a day in bed watching TV and eating take-out, planning a vacation together.

However afraid that Friday would crawl by, her worries were eased when she looked at the clock and saw it was almost time to go home for the day. No excuses for staying late tonight. She could finish paperwork tomorrow.

Miranda was showered, changed, and itching to go long before she was due for dinner. She'd made sure her legs were shaved, that her long hair was neatly parted and combed, that she had on just a dab of her elixir of passion – lemongrass. She had never put much thought into the smell of it before.

Filling the kettle up with water, she turned on the stove. A cup of tea would soothe her nerves. Why be nervous? Making out with him went perfectly well. She hadn't been nervous then. Perhaps it was just the anticipation. All her fantasies of having sex with him showed him to be decent and respectful, and she was sure that would hold true.

When it was ready, she sipped her tea, hummed along to the radio. She pondered.

Pete. P-e-e-e-e-te. Pete Graham. A little bit nervous himself, but happy as a clam when he was in his element. Caring, sexy, with that firm body and blow-you-away eyes that twinkled when he smiled. A very honest man. A good dresser, but not gay. She wouldn't mind watching him work out.

Her eyes wandered over to the clock. Finally. She could leave without showing up too early and eager.

* * *

Dinner went well (no garlic was served). Drinks went well (Pete had extra coasters placed discreetly on the end table). Their conversation flowed smoothly (they could talk about anything, absolutely anything). Then, they were exactly where they were the other night. Neither noticed it happening. He smelled even better than before. His body felt harder, his tongue already knew exactly what she liked.

* * *

Work continued; the dates continued. Life continued. They would share wine and watch TV, then make out like teenagers. They broke the formal-dress tradition and started enjoying their evenings in jeans and T-shirts (and how good Pete's arms looked, muscular and tan, always in a black or white sleeve). Miranda started inviting him over to her p lace, learning to cook a few things, offering her own favourite drinks. It felt good to cuddle with him on her couch, in front of her television set, holding his hand underneath the blanket they shared in case they fell asleep. If he awoke before her, he would stroke her cheek gently until she woke, carry her to her bed and whisper sweet nothings, and let himself out. He always called the next day.

He never pushed her to do anything; he waited patiently. How he managed, she didn't know. It was months before she asked him to spend the night. He hid his excitement well and responded coolly.

When it happened, it was perfect.

* * *

Life kept going. The sun seemed brighter, the air cleaner. For all the drab and dreary aspects of work, Miranda found it easy to find the sunny spots. She grew easier with co-workers, grew closer to Esther. She learned the girl had left home young, to get away from abusive parents, had lied her way into a high-paying, respectable job to earn the money to go to school, to get where she was today. Miranda had a lot of respect for her. Esther had only heard rumours of Miranda's past tragic events in these walls, and never asked for clarification. They began chatting on the phone on weekends.

A sexy boyfriend and a new good friend.

Pete brought her a single flower, an orchid, on the one-month anniversary of their first kiss. "Well, make-out fest," he admitted, grinning. He tucked the flower behind her ear. She wore it there all day. She found she could easily tell him whatever was on her mind; good or bad, he was there to listen. Once a week, they would sleep at one another's home, cuddling tightly until they fell asleep. They talked about being young, about their feelings on getting older, about past aspirations, shared secrets and gossip and hoi polloi.

Past demons never defeated, but sitting quietly, content to leave her be, Miranda felt at ease; relaxed; jubilant.

The sun had never been so bright.


End file.
